


The Witch and the Necromancer

by bottledspirits



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:53:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottledspirits/pseuds/bottledspirits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A notorious conjurer of the dead meets his match.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The lines flowed easily from the chalk between his fingers, scrawling out the ancient symbols in its wake. First the mark of strength, then the mark of fear. There was something of routine to the procedure now, after casting this spell countless times, but he still felt the same thrill he had the first time when the design began to take shape. The old symbols, meaningless to most now, were familiar to him.

Indeed, they were old; far older than he, and there was not much that could be considered such now.

There was but one piece of the design to be filled in. The mark was, by far, the youngest, but also the most important. It would give him power over anyone he chose, anyone foolish enough to surrender to the feeble mortal failing of death. With this symbol he could control them, make them bend to his will, make it as if their will never existed at all.

He grinned impishly as he began to draw the last part of the spell. It was so simple, yet so painstaking, just like his days as a boy, scratching out his letters with a piece of charcoal beside the hearth.

The letters took shape, and he could feel the power rising with each one: R U M P E L S T I L T S K I –

Something was wrong. The Dark One paused in his work and looked around the chamber. There was no one, there never was, and yet he felt a presence, almost as if someone was watching him.

And there was a heat from somewhere, though he knew not the source. The chamber he cast his spells in was always dark and cold, as it should be; though, as for that, the rest of his castle was dark and cold as well.

He pressed a hand over his heart. The heat seemed to be resonating from there, of all places. He knew not how it got there or how someone had managed to target him so precisely, but he was not frightened. In fact, he was overwhelmed by a strange sense of peace that overtook him then. It stemmed from his heart, which was beating more rapidly than he could remember it doing for a long time. He looked around and saw little white clouds of his breath, another unfamiliar sight.

Yet, he supposed, he had been as one dead for so long that signs of life in this desolate place were as strange to him as they would to any corpse.

He moved his hand from his heart to touch the floor. The chill of the stones against his skin was startling, and he remembered himself, as if he had been pulled from a dream.

The Dark One felt anger then. To trespass on his solitude was a crime in itself, but to do so with such errant fancies as this – it was unspeakable.

In this place, such warmth was unheard of and unwelcome.  He did not know who was intruding with their presence here, but they would not interfere with his work, and when he was finished, they would regret ever sending so much as a thought his way.

He bent over his work, scratching in the last letter of the spell, ignoring the rising heat in the room. It was growing rapidly now, and a pale light was spreading around him, but he took no heed of this. All of his concentration was bent on completing the spell. It was as if someone had reached out and was physically holding him back. The mere effort of holding up his arm was a struggle. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he found himself panting.

The last letter was formed just as his strength gave out. He fell back, exhausted, and finally noticed the light that surrounded him. He blinked at it, his pupils shrinking and making his cat-like eyes seem even more inhuman than usual. Had he seen them, he might have been frightened, for he had not taken notice of his eyes, or any of his appearance, for that matter, in a very long time. It had all seemed so inconsequential.

There came a voice, then. It was faint at first, as if it came from very far away, but grew louder as he listened. It was gentle, but firm, and seemed to resonate in the room around him. It was almost like the sound of a bell. He recalled the sound of the church bells in his youth, and then he grew more frightened than ever, for in as many years as most have lived, he had not had so many recollections of his childhood as he had since this strange magic had overtaken him.

He lay helpless on the floor, exhausted, listening to the voice. There were no words that he could decipher, yet he thought he heard one part being repeated. He strained to hear it clearly, though his senses were dulled by the onslaught of sensation.

It came to him slowly, then all at once, as consciousness does to those who have been dreaming. His eyes flew open, despite the light, and his fingers clenched against the stones beneath him.

Someone was calling his name, as gently as if to wake him from a long sleep. The longer he listened, the clearer his name became, and the light in the room was almost unbearable. The heat had long since spread from his heart and filled the rest of his body; his fingertips felt as if they were on fire.

Still the voice came, and he began to lose all sensation but the recognition of that voice. It was as clear now as if the person was speaking directly beside him. He had a vague realization that he could not see the rest of the room any longer, so bright was that oppressive light.

He shut his eyes against it. Even then, he could still see it, as if in his mind’s eye. He breathed slowly, no longer fighting this strange spell, merely struggling to maintain his consciousness against it.

But that, too, proved pointless. He could feel himself drifting away on a sea of warmth and light. He stopped fighting it, then – what was the point?

Besides, it felt so good here. Surely no one would begrudge him a moment’s rest, a brief respite in an endless thread of consciousness.

The last thing he remembered, before he lost all recollection, was a kind, gentle voice, saying his name, over and over:

“Rumpelstiltskin.”


	2. Chapter 2

He hadn’t been this hung over in a long while – if he was hung over, that is. He must have been, unless someone had decided to play kick-ball with his head. They had, on more than one occasion, so it wasn’t an unreasonable conclusion.

Wherever he was, it was far too bright. Rumpelstiltskin covered his eyes with his hands and rolled over onto his stomach.

“Bloody hell,” he groaned.

The sound of footsteps alerted him to another presence in the room, but he did not bother to move. Probably Milah come to wake him and scold him for drinking so much.

“Now is that any way to greet the morning?” someone asked brightly from behind him.

“Didn’t know it was,” Rumpelstiltskin replied sulkily.

“Hmm” was all the reply he got. Rumpelstiltskin lowered his hands and looked up. This was not Milah. This person spoke differently, walked differently – had a completely foreign presence altogether. His eyesight was strained by the harsh morning light, and he could only make out a silhouette on the far side of the room. He saw them shaking out some cloth, heard them humming a tune that felt familiar somehow. But that didn’t explain who they were or why they were here, in his house.

Rumpelstiltskin moved to get up. The bed groaned as he did, and his hands sank into the soft mattress. He paused and pressed his hands into the covers. This was not the bed he was used to.

Indeed, when he placed his feet on the floor, his shoes met carpet, not the gritty earth he was used to. What’s more, the boots he was wearing were nothing like he owned. They were all intricate laces and polished leather. It would have taken him ages to earn the money they must have cost, and he wouldn’t have dared to wear such things. Not he, the humble spinner.

Dimly aware that Milah would never let him go to bed with his boots on, Rumpelstiltskin rose from the bed and stood, staggering. He felt as if he’d been in a whirlpool.

Pressing a hand over his eyes to steady the spinning feeling, he placed the other on the bed as a guide and stumbled forward. He moved slowly, afraid of tripping over anything; in the state he was in, he’d hardly be able to remain standing.

He reached the end of the bed and gingerly lifted his hand. He took one cautious step forward, then another. Rumpelstiltskin was just beginning to gain his confidence when, on the third step, he brought his foot down and felt a jolt of pain worse than anything in his life course through him.

The force threw him back. He hit the foot of the bed and groaned, drawing his legs to his body instinctively. Little residuals twangs of pain snapped in his limbs as he did. He groaned again, his eyes squeezed shut as tightly as possible, though it was hardly necessary, with one hand still covering them.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” came the voice across the room.

“Indeed not,” Rumpelstiltskin said tartly. He carefully lowered his hand and blinked his eyes open.

The fall seemed to have knocked a bit of sense into him. He could make out colors and shapes now, and he could see the figure across the room more clearly. They were no formidable presence, certainly, but in his present state he wouldn’t want to face so much as a hedgehog.

Rumpelstiltskin glanced around. It was not his house, but a very comfortable room. The bed he rested against took up most of it. By the shape of it, he guessed it was in some sort of tower. Light flooded in from two tall windows, one on each side of the bed, and for all that his frazzled nerves ached against it, he couldn’t help thinking it was rather cheerful.

A strange glint caught his eye. Puzzled, he glanced down and looked at his hand – really looked at it. He frowned at his scaled, haggard skin. It was the color of mud and gold and blood, all at once, and glistened like flesh of some crawling animal. He stared at his hands, turned them over, but the skin covered all of it.

Realization hit him as sharply as the pain before. He was Rumpelstiltskin, the Dark One – a sorcerer of fierce power from the most sinister of sources. No one dared stand up to him. No one dared enter his domain without a reason and a cost.

He looked up at the girl standing across the room. Indeed, she was a girl; even shorter than himself, and that was saying something. She had dark brown curls that tumbled over her shoulder, and she wore a long white robe. She was arranging cloths into a dresser on the far side of the room, humming as she worked, for all that she occupied the same room as the Dark One.

“Where is this?” he asked, his voice dangerously low. He knew she would hear. People always listened when he spoke quietly.

She did not answer. His lips twitched into a snarl.

“How did I come to be here?” he demanded, louder now.

She looked up then, as blithe as you please, and met his gaze. No girl. A woman, and a strong one, for all she was so small. Her eyes were calm, without the slightest trace of fear, and he noted their color – somewhere between the frigid ice of the northern glaciers and the bright blue poppy that grew in certain valleys of the south.

The woman watched him for a moment, as if observing some interesting scene, then glanced away and went back to her work in the dresser.

“As for the first,” she began, in a lilting voice, “this is the fortress near Avonlea.”

She went on folding, almost ignoring him, and he waited with a mixture of impatience and interest. No one had ever treated him this way in his life, let alone his time as the Dark One.

Eventually she continued, still not looking at him:

“As for the second, I brought you here, and you are my prisoner. How I did it is my business.”

He turned his eyes on the woman and examined her critically. There was not much to indicate she was anything out of the ordinary, but experience taught him that appearances could not be believed.

“Ah,” he said, leaning back against the bed. “You’re a witch.”

That seemed to please her. The woman laughed lightly and looked away, and he could have sworn he saw a blush on her cheeks.

All the same, she returned his look with one of her own and said, albeit with good humor, “Is that any way to address a lady?”

He huffed.

“And what sort of lady am I addressing? One who whisks a creature such as myself away against his will and holds him captive in a place like this?” he asked.

She laughed outright then, setting down the remaining cloths in her arms so she could drop a curtsy.

“I am Belle, and I know your name already. Your reputation precedes you, Rumpelstiltskin,” she added, looking up at him with amusement in her eyes.

He couldn’t resist a smirk as he rested one arm lazily on his knee.

“And I’m to be your prisoner?” he asked.

She nodded as she folded the rest of the cloths into the dresser and closed it.

“Aye,” she said. “Get used to it.”


	3. Chapter 3

She came later with a tray for his breakfast. There was porridge, toast, eggs, bacon, fruit, tea, and coffee. He stared at it in bemusement when she set it down before him. He sat on the bed, still wearing the dark leather ensemble that he had been spirited away in. The Dark One could hardly be bothered to remember to eat on most days, and there was far more on the tray than he ever had for his morning meal as a man.

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I brought a few different things,” Belle said at his blank look, a little breathless after what he assumed was a long trek up the stairs with a heavy tray.

He merely stared at it, not moving to touch anything.

“I’m to be a well-fed prisoner, then?” Rumpelstiltskin inquired, regarding her dubiously. Who in their right mind would show such consideration for the Dark One? She had to know he was immune to poison.

The woman brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and smiled.

“Well, you’re hardly any use to me dead or half-starved,” she teased.

He turned his head to watch her as she bent to arrange things on the tray, his inhuman eyes making the expression uncommonly sharp. She took no notice and went on with her work. Rumpelstiltskin leaned forward until they were almost touching.

“And what use am I to be, hmm? What does a clever young witch like yourself want with the Dark One?” Rumpelstiltskin asked, his voice low near her ear.

She looked up at him with wide, untroubled eyes.

“Want?” Belle asked, puzzled.

“You went as far as to trap me here. You must have something you’re after, no?” Rumpelstiltskin asked, smiling ever so slightly.

Belle drew up and looked at him, her brow furrowed.

“Oh, no. You misunderstand. I don’t want anything from you,” she said.

He blinked.

“Then why ever did you bring me here?” he asked, as confused as ever.

She smiled and shrugged.

“I just wanted you to stop causing trouble,” Belle said, reaching into the pocket of her robe as she spoke. She drew out a small roll of parchment and held it up where he could see.

“This is the spell of the Undying, isn’t it?” she asked, tapping a finger on the parchment and grinning at him wickedly. “Now wherever did a nice boy like you get your hands on such a thing?”

“I wrote it,” Rumpelstiltskin growled, rising from his seat in a fury. How dare she take that from him! How dare she try to oppose him, the Dark One!

“Ah-ah,” Belle said, holding up one hand. Rumpelstiltskin found his limbs frozen, as if invisible strings bound him where he stood. “You will commit no violence in this room, please.”

His eyes, the only part of him that could move, lit upon her face. Her expression did not falter. She brought the spell up into his line of sight and gave it the slightest flick to draw his attention.

“And as you wrote this spell, more’s the pity that you won’t be able to use it.”

She tucked it in her pocket and smoothed her robe, then looked up at him with a bright smile.

“Now,” she said cheerfully. “Time to eat.”

He blinked at her. He’d forgotten all about the food. The moment his mind went from the spell to the tray, he found he could move again.

Rumpelstiltskin fell back on the bed with a feathery  _whump_ , looking rather cowed. Not even his wife had treated him this way, in his days as a mortal man. He stared somewhat numbly at the tray.

“Go on,” Belle urged. “Or I’ll stay here and make sure you do.”

He went unusually still at that. There was no telling what she could mean by “make sure”. To his embarrassment, he felt a flush in his cheeks, though it had been so long since he had felt such a thing that he was not sure what to make of it at first.

Rumpelstiltskin picked up a spoon from the tray and took a spoonful of porridge. As he raised it to his lips, he felt eyes on him. He looked up and saw the woman watching him with an expectant look.

“What?” he asked, feeling flustered.

Belle gave a start, as if he’d broken her concentration.

“Oh! Sorry. I just wasn’t sure how you liked it, so I was watching to see what you thought,” she confessed.

The heat in his face only grew more intense at that. He ducked his head to stare at his porridge and began again.

He was aware of being observed. The woman did not watch him directly, but turned to look at the room at intervals, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. He watched her through stolen glances, and when their eyes met, he looked away as if he had not seen her.

The porridge was good, though sweeter than he liked, but it hardly bothered him, since he usually did not concern himself with the finer details of his food. Rumpelstiltskin moved to take a sip of tea and saw the woman sit up like a hound that had caught the scent. He looked at her, his fingers curled around the handle of the delicate china cup. Their eyes met, and they both sat frozen. He knew not what to say, and was unable to decipher the expression on her face.

His fingers twitched anxiously on the cup, and she looked away suddenly, her hands shifting in her lap.

Rumpelstiltskin took a sip and set the cup down. As he did, he noticed a little vase on the tray with a fresh peony. Had she put it there? But of course. Who else would have? Was she alone here?

“Are you finished?” she asked, startling him.

He glanced at her as she drew near, her presence heralded by a soft rustling of cloth and the scent of something he could not identify. Something sweet – another flower of some sort. He nodded absently at her question, too caught up in the scent to say anything.

Belle tidied the items on the tray and lifted it.

“If you tell me what you like, I’ll try to bring it next time,” Belle said, her voice soft. He merely stared at her.

She did not notice, and went on speaking.

“And if there’s anything else I can get you…” Belle trailed off as she met his gaze. He was eyeing her with suspicion.

“What is it?” she asked. His eyes narrowed.

“You treat me as if I was a guest and not your prisoner,” Rumpelstiltskin said.

Belle’s confusion only deepened, as did the furrow in her brow.

“I have no reason to mistreat you,” she said. He snorted.

“Anyone else would call it fair treatment for one so wicked as I,” he said, stretching languidly on the bed.

She regarded him for a moment, as if he was some puzzle and not a wicked sorcerer. He closed his eyes, unable to bear that honest expression on her face.

“I’m not  _anyone_ ,” Belle said eventually, making him look at her again. She shifted the tray in her arms and moved toward the door, adding, “And I hardly see what’s so wicked about you. You finished your porridge like any good little boy would do.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she chose that moment to glance over her shoulder and smile at him.

“I’ll be back, Rumpelstiltskin.”


	4. Chapter 4

They fell into a sort of routine, the girl and Rumpelstiltskin. She brought his meals three times a day and sat with him while he ate. At first he thought it was to make sure he did eat, but she often stayed long after the tray was empty, and he had no idea what to make of her.

He asked, every now and then, how she had managed to trap him. Belle only laughed.

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret,” was all the reply he got.

Still he pestered her, as much out of curiosity as the desire to be free. He wanted to know what kind of mind could devise a trap for someone as powerful as the Dark One.

One day, when she was done laughing at his obvious attempts, she looked at him quite seriously for a moment. Rumpelstiltskin faltered under her gaze.

"What?" he asked, unnerved.

“Tell you what,” she said. “When I feel I can trust you, I’ll tell you how I managed to bring you here.”

He snorted at that.

“Only a fool would trust me that much,” Rumpelstiltskin scoffed.

She smiled and rose with his tray.

“Then I guess you’ll never find out, will you?” Belle asked.

She turned and swept out of the room at that, pausing at the door to grin and stick her tongue out at him. He stared after her, utterly flabbergasted. What a rude little…cheeky, devilish…

The way she smiled was lovely.

He spent many hours lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. There wasn’t much else to do. He had tried the windows, not expecting much, and found himself jolted back as powerfully as before. That had left him feeling dizzy for hours.

It was quiet here, so dreadfully quiet that the sound of his pulse in his ears was like thunder in his skull. Rumpelstiltskin found himself tapping irritably, his foot or his fingers, in an unsteady rhythm that grew more erratic as he tried and failed to cope with his frustration.

That method gave way to songs. He murmured the verses under his breath, hesitantly, for he could not remember all of the words at first. It was embarrassing. Fancy a great sorcerer being unable to remember a silly old song! Rumpelstiltskin fumbled through the melodies for a while before making up words of his own. The new verses, while lacking in finesse, made up for this shortcoming in the almost manic way they were delivered.

Once such tune went:

_Hickory, dickory, dock,_

_The mouse ran up the clock._

_The mouse went mad,_

_The clock fell down_

_Hickory, dickory, dock._

Rumpelstiltskin giggled over his creation for some time, not so much impressed with his invention as he was drunk on the sense of giddy euphoria that came over him at such times. He laughed, feeling both triumphant and sick; all the while, his mind was bent on the old songs, turning old cogs and grinding away at centuries of lost recollection, hell-bent on recovering them for reasons he could not fathom.

The true song came to him abruptly, with such a shock that it ended his laughter in an instant. He remembered someone singing the words to him in a gentle, soothing voice. He remembered the warmth of the fire burning a few feet away, the scent of wood-smoke drifting through the house, the feel of the earthen floor under his fingertips. He remembered a presence, looming but not frightening, that brought him comfort as well as joy.

Rumpelstiltskin was so overwhelmed by his memories that he turned onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. Hot tears leaked from his eyes and soaked the soft material. Each was wrung from him as painfully as if he bled them, stinging as they escaped down his lashes.

Great, wracking sobs took him. He was startled by the intensity of his response. It was just a song, sung centuries ago by someone whose face was blurred by the ages, someone with as much power as any of the faceless peasants who labored in this world. Yet he could not forget that song.

It frightened him. What was this place that he was reduced to a sobbing, shambling mess? He could hardly remember the last time he had felt this way – he had not  _bothered_  to remember such things for so long that that they seemed like something from a story rather than pieces of his own history.

He cried himself out. His eyes burned and his head pounded, but he did not sleep. He dared not, with such memories weighing on his mind. Who knew what dreams would arise from them?

The pillow was damp beneath him. His breath made it uncomfortably hot, but that was nothing to him. He remained trapped in the downy folds of the bedspread, listening once more to the roaring pulse in his head. It reminded him now of nothing so much as the sound of the sea, rushing in and out. He gave himself over to that steady force, willing it to take all consciousness away.

She came to him then. He heard her footsteps on the stairs but did not move. Why should he? For all he knew she was just another memory, another sound in the frenzy. What if he had never left his tower – if his spell had gone wrong, and he was trapped, doomed to be driven mad by the echoes of his own past?

Yes, she was not real. She was just a dream, along with all the others, and the sooner he forgot them, the better.

He heard the door. There was a shuffle, and then a pause.

“Are you ill?” he heard her say.

Rumpelstiltskin squeezed his eyes shut and willed her to go away.

She crossed the room toward him. Her skirt swished softly in the silence, her shoes tapped lightly on the stones. There was a creak, and he felt the bed sway under her weight as she sat down beside him.

“What’s the matter?” Belle asked softly – too softly, and the pain that shot through him was so wholly unfamiliar that another sob choked its way from his throat.

Her hand flew to his forehead, brushing back the sticky, damp strands of his hair.

“What’s wrong?” she asked in a pleading tone so unlike her usual mirth. “Only tell me what’s wrong – won’t you?”

The fingers that stroked his brow were cool. He leaned into the touch instinctively. Even the rustle of fabric as he moved his head was painful with his frayed nerves, but Rumpelstiltskin ignored it as he opened his eyes to look at her.

It was no good. Again, the world was a whirl of colors and shapes. He could feel the warmth of her better than he could see her, and he closed his eyes against the riot of images as he felt her reach out with her other hand to cup his face.

“Belle?” he asked, his voice sounding slurred.

“Yes?” she asked. Her voice was very close, as if she was leaning down to him.

“Belle, will you sing to me?”

There was a pause.

“Of course. What would you like to hear?”

He sighed.

“Anything.”

He heard her let out a breath. For a moment, all was quiet. Rumpelstiltskin thought she might have changed her mind.

But then she was shuffling closer to him, touching him gently, lifting his head to rest in her lap. She smelled of soap, of flowers, of something warm and living, and it had been so long since he’d known such smells that he winced at a sudden pain in his chest. Yet he did not move from her touch – would not, for all the world.

She sang a song he did not know. There was a boat – or was it a cradle? – and a wind, and wind that could be both gentle and cruel. Her voice grew low as she sang, and that strange lilt became more pronounced; was she singing a song from her childhood? From her homeland?

He grew sleepy as she sang, and the pounding ache in his head gradually subsided. 


End file.
